Dial Em for Murder (28 page)

Blood dripped from my palm as Ms. Pierce hauled me to my feet, never breaking eye contact. Her face dominated my field of vision, until she became the sole focus of my world. I soaked in every detail, from the clumpy mascara that she had swiped on her eyelashes earlier that day, to her winged jade-green eyeliner, to the faint trace of a white scar right above her left eye. None of it unsettled me more than the total lack of compassion in her gaze as she adjusted my sweatshirt with a few brisk movements. As if she was tidying me up for a big interview or helping me primp for a first date. I didn't realize it was possible to quake this hard with fear. I thought it was something that they showed on television as an excuse to hand the traumatized victim a blanket at the end of a procedural. The body-heaving shivers were supposed to be an excuse for the heroine to curl into the arms of her love interest.

It felt far too real to me now.

My whole body went numb as her hand slithered into my pocket, claiming the Slate for herself. I was cold. So frozen inside that I couldn't imagine ever unthawing. The only other time I'd felt this marrow-deep chill had been in the coffee shop, right after the old man had died on top of me. Trapped, scared, confused, none of that had changed. I wasn't any closer to understanding why Ms. Pierce had been hired to kill me now than I had been during my police interrogation.

The old man's warning rattled around some cold distant part of my brain.

Somehow I didn't think Frederick St. James would be particularly impressed with a tossed casserole dish and some screaming that sounded like an audition for Dead Girl #5 in a slasher movie. He'd have wanted more from me. He would have wanted me to protect the damn Slate.

I sucked in a short breath and followed a dead man's advice.

I slashed out with the jagged piece of glass, hoping to connect with something—
anything
—except thin air.

Ms. Pierce had my wrist clamped before I'd made it even halfway to my target. Her movement was awkward, hindered by the Slate that she still clutched in her other hand. But the brutal strength of her grasp had me crying out in pain, struggling to loosen her hold on either me or the Slate. Both preferably. She merely frowned and increased the pressure. Unending waves of red-hot agony brought me to my knees as I waited for my bones to splinter then crack.

An irreverent part of my brain couldn't help pointing out that it was a damn shame I was about to die because otherwise this would've been great material for a romance novel. My hard-edged police detective could've been tortured by a cartel leader—and I could have described
exactly
how it felt to have pain slicing into each fingertip. How every nerve could scream with an ache that refused to ebb. These were the kind of details that really humanized a character, made them nice and sympathetic so that their dark moments came across as understandable reactions to past trauma instead of general jackassery.

Why
any
of that was occurring to me when I was kneeling before a killer was beyond me. I should have been thinking of something profound. Something about mortality and how love couldn't simply end with death, not when my mom would hear the echo of a whispered
I love you
every time she looked at my kindergarten art on the refrigerator. Every time she flipped through the photo album that chronicled every birthday, every first day of school, every major haircut, she'd see it in my smile. Every autumn she'd watch the leaves redden on the trees and search for one that was the exact same shade as my hair, and she'd smile quietly to herself when she spotted it.

That's what I should've been thinking in the grasp of a homicidal criminal law teacher.

Too bad my brain was still stuck on
Oh, shit
.

Ms. Pierce's scowl didn't lessen as the shard of glass slipped uselessly through my fingers, dropping to the ground. Triumph flashed in her eyes when her free hand tugged the Slate out of my pocket.

“Look at what you made me do. Bruises weren't part of the plan. I guess I can start a rumor that you got them from Sebastian. That you like it rough.” She laughed wryly. “Slut-shaming is a horrible practice, but it's so wonderfully effective.”

I couldn't manage anything more than a grunt of pain.

“It's been fun, Emmy.” She yanked up on the wrist that was one twist away from snapping. “But it's time for you to be on your way.”

There was no secret weapon tucked up my sleeve. No brilliant last-minute plan. My life was truly over, and while that scared me witless, it almost came as a relief. The burning pain that had clawed its way up my side before taking residency in my wrist, the gut-wrenching panic, all of it was about to disappear.

Oblivion was a tempting gift, even when it came at a crippling price.

Even when it meant losing everything.

Ms. Pierce stepped behind me, gripping my shoulders to propel me the few scant remaining inches between me and the window. I could feel the Slate digging into my back. She still had it tightly clutched in her right hand, unable to conceal it in her own pocket while I struggled and thrashed like a maniac.

“Jump, Emmy.”

The cobblestones glinted coolly under the glow of a nearby lightpost, hypnotizing me. Maybe I'd look that remote, untouchable, when my body connected with solid ground. I wondered if anyone would leave flowers there to mark the spot, or if some groundskeeper would quickly blast away any residual bloodstain with a power washer.

“No.” The word emerged as a croak as I splayed my fingers along both sides of the glass window. “I'm
not
jumping.”

Ms. Pierce sighed, as if growing annoyed by my lackluster performance. Apparently, this whole murder thing was becoming tedious for her, rather like grading essays or filing income tax statements. She inhaled slowly through her nose like she was searching for divine patience while I tried to squirm away.

I couldn't break her grasp.

“Have a nice—”

My shoulders were jerked backward so abruptly that I didn't even have time to blink at the ceiling before I made contact with the hardwood floor. Hard. The pink and blue splotches that had danced before my eyes earlier flitted back once more. They drunkenly lurched across my field of vision, keeping rhythm with the slow aching throb of my head.

She'd changed her mind.

Ms. Pierce wasn't going to show me mercy—I knew better than to hope for
that
—but she must have decided a quick death was too good for me. She wasn't finished playing with me. Jerking me around. Toying with me until I would do anything, jump right out a third story window, just to make it stop.

Her face emerged out of a swirling pink haze, close enough for me to see that the eyeliner on her right lid was a smidgen too long. Close enough to see the rage simmering in the dark brown depths of her eyes. I scrambled away, bracing myself for a brand new slap of pain.

It never came.

Instead, I heard the unmistakable sound of a fist connecting with flesh. Broken gasps of agony, that weren't coming from me for a change. Every cell in my body screamed at me to
get the hell out of there
. To make a break for it. To run—not walk—out the door, down three flights of stairs, all the way back to the relative safety of the girls' dormitory or the computer lab.

I had to make someone call the cops.

Now. Right now.

Except that entire plan rested on my ability to drag myself off the floor. My left wrist couldn't support my weight, my right hand was a bloody mess, and every inch of the rest of me hurt too badly to tell if something was broken. My teeth clamped shut as I hissed through the pain to keep from crying out. Nobody appeared to be paying any attention to me.

But I'd been wrong about that before.

A disconcerting rhythm of physical contact filled the room like the bass line to a heavy metal song. I couldn't get a good look at my unexpected protector, beyond noting that he seemed to have at least an extra foot of height on Ms. Pierce. Some distant part of my brain pointed out that his enormous frame should be unforgettable. He was bulky and huge and should have been easy to identify in a police lineup. Except he was focused entirely on my homicidal teacher, which meant that he'd turned his back on me. As they struggled closer to the window the inevitable truth that someone wasn't going to make it out of the library alive jarred me out of my frozen panic. I didn't want to stick around for a swan-dive exit.

Especially because the enemy of my criminal law teacher might not be my friend.

I fled, limping my way past the broken remains of the chair I had placed under the door knob before I managed to lengthen my stride into a jerky gait. The animalistic sounds of serious fighting felt inescapable. Grunts, pained gasps, heavy breathing, the high-pitched scrape of glass beneath shoes as both combatants fought to stay standing—all of it was punctuated by the unmistakable slam of fists. I nearly slipped on some crushed glass when I risked a glance over my shoulder. Only grabbing onto the break room countertop saved me from falling on my face.

I skidded out of the room, fear churning deep inside me.

Two aisles of books to go.

One aisle.

I stumbled down the first flight of stairs, my breath coming in pants and wheezes that had me clutching onto the railing. A slick trail of blood marked my progress and my head spun sickeningly with every lurching step. Each movement sent a fresh wave of pain zipping through me. The floor pitched wildly, but I couldn't do more than sway forward, smacking right into one of the brick walls. I couldn't slow down. Couldn't do much more than absorb the pain with a gasp and stagger onward.

Ms. Pierce might be right behind me.

Given her track record, she wouldn't be preoccupied for long.

Fresh air on my sweaty skin was the closest thing to heaven I'd ever experienced, especially accompanied by the
whoosh
and
click
of the library door closing behind me. The sweet scent of cut grass almost overpowered the coppery taste of blood, but I couldn't stop to bury my nose in the lawn or kiss the cobblestones. Couldn't slow down. Couldn't pause to steady myself. I moved unsteadily past the break room chair that jutted out of the lawn like a demented modern art sculpture. I blindly weaved in a circle, searching for a campus security guard. A fellow student. At this point, even
Peyton
would have been a welcome sight.

A piercing scream reverberated in the cold night air.

My head jerked up and I watched in abject horror as a figure crashed through what little remained of the glass window. Arms windmilled in a desperate attempt to prevent the inevitable, as if that alone might counteract the pull of gravity. The sickening
crunch
of a body colliding with the cobblestones would haunt my nightmares forever.

That body was supposed to be mine.

That death had been intended for me.

And I wasn't out of the woods yet.

Nothing makes people spring into action quite like a murder.

The security guards that were supposed to be protecting all the rich kids at Emptor Academy came barreling toward me, as if that would make a difference. As if that could erase the memory of what I'd just witnessed. As if they could whitewash the bloodstains and make everything as good as new. Pretend the darkness no longer existed.

I didn't know what to tell them.

Hey guys. Took you long enough. I'm doubled over and vomiting from relief, actually. Okay, and nausea. And pain. And adrenaline. P.S. If anyone touches me, I might puke on them. Fun fact.

I was too busy trying not to retch on my sneakers to say much of anything. I could hear them demanding backup before calling the NYPD to report a possible homicide. The words washed over me without sinking in. My body felt completely disconnected from the scene taking shape around me. The authoritative demands, the random snatches of conversation, the awkward attempts at sympathy from the security guard who'd been stuck with the unenviable job of watching me hurl; all of it sounded like a long-distance phone call with terrible reception.

I clutched the ripped denim of my jeans as my empty stomach heaved again.

Something inside me had broken. I didn't know what, exactly, but it was gone. Smashed to bits. Some frozen part of me kept repeating,
All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Emmy together again.

Just like there was no fixing the tangle of broken limbs on the lawn.

I couldn't even bring myself to provide a positive identification of the
corpse
. The security guard at my side kept asking me if I knew what happened. If I could answer their questions. If I could tell them
precisely
what I'd witnessed.

Except the only thing that terrified me more than looking into Ms. Pierce's lifeless eyes would be to discover that it hadn't been her. That my teacher had added yet another person to her body count because I hadn't been skilled enough to stop her.

Hadn't been smart enough. Brave enough. Strong enough.

A slow whistle cut off my security guard midquestion. “Somebody did a number on this lady, Joel,” said another security guard who was standing over the corpse.

My knees crumbled and I collapsed onto the lawn. Pain flared brightly, then dimmed as wet blades of grass tickled my face and the world turned sideways. My Starbucks killer was dead. My Potential Hostile. My criminal law teacher.

She couldn't hurt me now.

That probably should have come as a relief, but it didn't. My blind panic refused to subside. I felt no comfort in her death. No sense of resolution. No closure. It didn't even the score or set anything to rights. There was no fixing the damage that she'd already done. Her death wouldn't bring Frederick St. James back. It wouldn't unravel the knot of terror in the pit of my stomach.